


Disarmed

by panchostokes (badwolfrun)



Series: Make it Worse [7]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beating, Episode: s09e12 Disarmed and Dangerous, Gen, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Nick Stokes Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27729568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfrun/pseuds/panchostokes
Summary: Nick enters the restroom, he meets Mingus and his doctor. Mingus pushes him and Nick says, "don't touch me."This time, he does.
Series: Make it Worse [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1978048
Comments: 7
Kudos: 7





	Disarmed

As soon as they entered the arena, Nick’s ears popped and erupted after being exposed to the yelling, shouting, cheering, and screaming from the exhilarated crowd watching the caged colosseum below. 

They had ascended the stairs to get a proper scope of the converted warehouse, searching for the prizefighter Vinnie Mingus, but easily find themselves distracted by the action underneath the flimsy gate keeping them from falling in.

“Well, it sure ain't the Mandalay Bay,” Brass snarks at the squalorous atmosphere littered with smells of sweat and alcohol.

“Welcome to human cockfighting,” Nick hollers over the commotion. Years and years of quality time with brothers of both paternity and fraternity alike had given him a liking for spectating the bloodsport, and while wrestling had a sort of cheesy entertainment, it was the authenticity of an actual _fight_ that always appealed to him. 

Participating, maybe not so much. He doesn’t envy the bruises and bloodshed even in a prideful display of strength, though he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t wanted to get his knuckles cracking on skulls, releasing the repressed rage simmering in the face of injustice.

“Man, this is as real as it gets! It’s like a bar fight spilled out into the alleyway,” he continues, wishing he could turn off the part of his brain that’s analyzing the spatter patterns of blood on the mat and just enjoy the show.

“Like the Marquis of Queensberry, I prefer boxing. The sweet science,” Brass puts his fists up to mimic the boxing stance, and Nick smiles at him before catching a glimpse of a large banner with a giant man printed onto it, the real reason they’re here.

“There’s Mingus,” he gestures.

“Somebody around here must have seen him. Let’s have a look around.”

With a final glance down to the squared circle below, they split up in opposite directions, Brass starting with the balcony while Nick goes to the lower level. He pushes himself through the crowd, almost getting knocked down by some eager fans leaping and pumping their fists in the air. It frustrates him but he just shoves back and continues through, knowing that the energy of a crowd is untamed and wild as fire. He can’t control it. 

What he can control is using the cover of the crowd to his advantage as he passes by the manager’s office, knowing that the minute they spot a uniform they’re going to demand a warrant. They’re just here for a few simple questions, nothing more. 

He finds himself in a long hallway occupied by recovering and preparing fighters alike, with either a coaching doctor or trophy woman by their side. A few of them glance at Nick as if they’re sizing him up, and there’s a competitive instinct in him that wants to break some skin so badly, even if it’s his own knuckles as they impact the toned muscles of a fellow man who thinks he can get one over on Nick Stokes. 

_The pride always goeth before the fall,_ a mentoring voice in his head pings at him, reminding him he’s not here for a fight. He’s here for a job. 

He finds himself at the end of the hallway, jeered at by a fighter and either his trainer or his doctor as he wraps the tape around his hands, a towel hanging from his shoulder. They lock eyes for an awkward amount of time, and Nick redirects his gaze into the door to his right; the den for the waitresses as they refill their stock and readjust their outfits. 

He clears his throat and looks to the right as he hears a commanding voice, calling the name of his intended target.

“Vinnie, please. You’ve got to sit down.”

“Get out of my way!” a gruff response. 

Nick slowly approaches, his hand on his holster ready to draw.

He enters a run down restroom, a wall filled from top to bottom with towels next to the doorway, while the rest of the room takes a more minimalistic approach, a few stalls and a large space for fighters to recover and clean up. He hears a hacking cough and the squeaking of wheels as a large man emerges from an open stall attached to an IV, one arm wrapped in a bloodied bandage.

Large is putting it mildly. The man’s as big as he was on the banner.

“Hey Brass, I got him!” Nick calls out, realizing he doesn’t actually know where Brass is or if he can hear him.

“Didn’t I get the message across with the last guy?” Mingus chuckles as he staggers towards Nick. 

Nick continues to enter the room, still sizing Mingus up.

“I’m sorry, you can’t come in here,” an accented man sneers at Nick. The usual response when the force is snooping in places that they really should be.

“LVPD, clear everybody out of here, I want to have a word with Mr. Mingus,” Nick doesn’t meet the man’s eyes, instead still trained on the injured Mingus. Seeing the fighter in such a weakened state puts him at a little bit of an ease, but not much.

“Please, I’m his doctor,” the man retorts, but before Nick can open his mouth to bite back, Mingus approaches within inches from his face, jabbing just two fingers that jab into Nick’s shoulder, pushing him back further than just _two fingers_ should have.

“What kind of getup is that?” Mingus chuckles again, seeming to get some sort of joy out of watching Nick scrunch his face in anger, drawing his weapon out in a flash.

“Don’t touch me,” Nick warns him, keeping his gun drawn at his side, with no actual intent to shoot, just to diffuse the situation with a display of power.

“We both know that gun’s not loaded,” Mingus laughs, easily swatting the gun out of Nick’s hand, the clattering echo pricking Nick’s ears up. 

“Hey!” Nick shouts, ducking down to reach for the gun but he’s distracted when Mingus flicks off his hat. 

“Just like this stupid uniform, _Stokes._ You like playing dress up, Stokes?” Mingus taunts. 

“Stop it!” Nick warns the brute with a shove of his own--although he has to use both hands to even get the man to budge. 

The room falls silent, save for the heavy panting of the recovering fighter, who seems to get a second wind as he pulls out his IV, tossing it aside and lunges at Nick, who had tried once again to retrieve his gun. Just as his fingers brush the grip, he’s pulled back from behind and turned around, staring in the manic, smelly, sweaty face of the fighter who has a devilish grin as he twists his hands around the folds of Nick’s vest.

“Let--go of--me--” he spurts out in a higher voice than he would like, his heart pounding furiously as his lungs flutter rapidly. The man’s fingers somehow clench the skin beneath his clothes, pinching his nipple so tightly he’s worried it’s going to be plucked off--

He cries out, but no help comes, lost to the roars of the crowd that he can still hear bouncing off the hallway walls. 

Nick’s feet no longer touch the ground, there’s a floating feeling in his chest that he doesn’t like at all, he kicks his feet at the unmoving bag of flesh in front of him as the man lifts him higher, and higher--

“Put me down, Mingus! You can’t do this!”

“Can’t do _what?_ You’re pathetic, _little man._ I eat vermin like you for breakfast,” Mingus bellows as he uses the injured arm to back-slap Nick’s cheek the other way. As his eyes burn and re-focus on the messy bandages on his attacker’s arm, Nick gets the idea to target the wound, digging his fingers onto the damp pool of crimson.

“Please, Mr. Stokes, don’t antagonize him!” the doctor cries out under Mingus’ roar of pain as Nick’s shoved into the wall of towels, his spine impacts on the hard wood of the shelves. Towels fall, one on top of his head that he tries to shake off.

He tries to blindly reach out again, but the giant man sees this and simply, _effortlessly,_ swings Nick around, throwing him to the other side of the room. He slides on the cement, coiling himself up as he catches his breath. He hears the similarly exhausted breathing from the giant and feels his approach as his hair stands up on the back of his neck.

He tries to push himself up as he spits onto the floor, but he’s kicked on the back of his head, knocking him down again and almost into unconsciousness, but not quite. The grey floor of cement becomes bespeckled with white flashes.

He tries to fight back. A coiled fists reaches upwards and falls right back down like an anchor.

He can’t do anything. 

“S-stop…” he pleads as he’s now beginning to wonder where the hell Brass is, where the hell the backup is, why the doctor hasn’t done anything to incapacitate his crazed, raging patient.

Instead of stopping, the hair on top of Nick’s head is pulled up in a tight grab and he’s pulled upwards before he’s slammed face first back into the cement. He can feel dual streams of blood flow over his top lip into his mouth. His nose feels as if it were flattened into his cheeks. He tries to reach his hands backwards, fumbling for some sort of grip on the fingers digging into his skull. 

“‘Crime Scene Investigations,’” his assailant growls, before barking a mocking laugh, tossing Nick roughly to the ground once again, this time his forehead taking most of the impact. “You’re not even a cop!” 

“You’re-you’re making a big mistake,” Nick nasally drawls through a cough of blood. 

“You’re the one who made a big mistake, _hoss,”_ Mingus sneers, mimicking his southern accent. “Thinking you could last even one round against _me!”_

He feels a blow to his back, a foot, stomping on him, pressing on him.

 _Standing_ on him. 

“Get--off--!” Nick wheezes. “Doctor, do something!” 

“Just relax, Mr. Stokes, you’re making it worse--” the doctor starts, and Nick wants to be the one to personally revoke the man’s medical license as his neck is grabbed from behind, feeling thick pudgy fingers dance into either side of his throat.

“Gonna show the whole world what a phony you are,” Mingus chuckles, and the fingers crawl down and into the back of his vest. He kicks and hollers--or at least tries, his voice is lost somewhere under the blanket of heavy, gasping breaths as the collar of his shirt presses into the front of his neck, keeping his Adam’s apple blocked from rising--his kicks weaken even under the rush of panic coursing through his veins as he’s hauled out of the room and back into the hallway, past the attractive waitresses and preparing fighters who now look at him with even more scrutiny and almost...pity? 

The crowd seems to be cheering even louder as Mingus throws him like a rag doll into the very cage he was just spectating, the strobes of camera bulbs and dancing spotlight hiding the faces beyond his prison. His body slams into the grated cage, he tries to loop his fingers but the crazed crowd on the outside walls slam him into the ring--they probably think this is some sort of stunt. 

He wonders if Warrick, a fan of boxing and wrestling and fighting matches alike, is watching this one from his prime seat in the skies above.

Then again, with the condition his body is in and the lack of medical attention thus far...Nick might be able to ask him himself.

In the commotion, he misses the sound of the gated door slamming shut, but just barely hears Mingus’ orders for it to be locked. 

His blood becomes another in a gallery of victims painted on the canvas against his swelling, bleeding lips. He splays his hands out in front of him, choking back the humiliated tears that burn his vision. He lifts his head, his lips trembling as he works up a yell for Brass or Officer Mitchell, or just _someone_ to help him--

He feels something hard, but not a fist, and not a foot, knock his head back down as he struggles to get to his feet. 

“It’s fake! It’s all fake!” Mingus declares. “This gun is fake, the L-V-P-D is fake--”

Nick is rolled over by one of the giant’s feet, which stomps into his stomach, causing him to focus on coughing up dry heaves in recovery rather than some sort of escape. 

_Where the fuck is Brass?_

“Help!” he hoarsley gasps, his eyes pleading to the faceless crowd. “This man is-is crazy! You gotta listen to m-me--”

Another kick to the gut, Doc Robbins voice foretelling his cause of death being internal bleeding. 

Another fist into his chest, through the ribcage, into his lungs. 

Another punch into his already broken nose, the streams of blood from two nostrils become a full-blown waterfall.

Another grab of the folds of his vests, the fingers gripping tightly and teasing the zipper down before the fabric is completely torn apart.

The stripped garment is lifted in the air like some sort of prize, and tossed into the applauding audience. 

“This man is _nothing!”_ Mingus shouts. “He’s a fake, he’s not going to protect you, not going to serve you!” 

A punch to his face, one of his eyes loses vision entirely, tuned into a bubbling explosion of inverted stars. 

“Hell, I wouldn’t even call him a _man,_ look at him! He’s not even fighting back!” Mingus laughs as he picks Nick up again, throwing him into another wall--that once again pushes him back as he hears the eager chants, “Kick his ass!” “Tear him apart!” “What a loser!” 

“STOP!” 

Finally, Brass’ voice coming through--

“LVPD, Put your hands in the air, I’m not going to ask again!” 

Nick falls face first into the mat, feels more near-fatal blows to the back of his head, to his back, feels a literal kick into his ass--

“For fuck’s sake, Mitch, get this damn door open--Stop this right now, Mingus, you’re _killing_ him!”

“Oh, c’mon, it’s just a little rough housing play, nothing you boys ain’t used to,” Mingus slurs, and Nick can not only hear the heavy panting from the larger man, but feel the breath on his face as he lifts Nick up in the air by the scruff of his neck. “And he’s still breathin’. Maybe he’s a prizefighter after all!”

He shakes Nick, who groans as his one good eye flutters rapidly, fighting to keep his eyeball from rolling up. 

“Put him down, or I will shoot!”

“You ain’t gonna shoot me,” Mingus laughs. “That gun’s not real!” 

“Shhhhhoot ‘iiiiiim,” Nick moans, but only the giant hears him. The grip on the back of his neck gets tighter, another punch is sent into his face, completely blinding him as the flesh around his good eye inflates into itself.

“Oh, you wanna bet, pal?” Brass raises his voice, the cage door swings open. The crowd boos. _“Drop him.”_

“Heh, if you insist, puny man,” Mingus grunts, throwing Nick as the elder cop, and in the commotion as a uniformed officer helps both of them, Mingus grabs his weapon.

“This gun’s not even loaded!” Mingus announces.

The crowd goes silent. 

Nick’s heart stops beating, not knowing where the gun is pointed. At him? At Brass? Is Mingus pointing it at himself?

“See?” 

His finger squeezes the trigger, but before he can pull on it completely, Nick uses the last ounce of will he has to send a blind, but well-aimed kick to the man’s knee, sending him to the ground. 

“Ding-ding-ding,” Nick coughs out, before he allows his body to collapse into a resting slumber, feeling much safer in the hesitantly rough, but oddly comforting hold of Jim Brass.

But not before hearing Warrick’s voice, louder than any of the voices in the blaring white noise of the arena, telling him, “You ain’t down for the count yet, buddy.”


End file.
